


Overload

by ImBadWithWords



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Blood and Gore, Gen, Hurt Peter, Identity Reveal, Panic Attacks, Sensory Overload, no too bad though i hope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 07:56:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9428522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImBadWithWords/pseuds/ImBadWithWords
Summary: When Peter first put on the suit, he knew there would be risks. He knew there would be danger. He had thought he was ready.He wasn't.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Peter has so many brushes with death during his career as Spider-Man that he kind of becomes numb to them. But there had to be a first time, right?

Peter knows this is not his usual gig.

For one, he tends to stay far, far away from Hell’s Kitchen. Daredevil is _so cool_ , but there’s a correlation between DD’s appearances and violent, bloody beat-downs. No thank you. And two, organized crime takes up so much time and energy. Peter doesn’t have the time to track down leads or connect all the dots. He stops muggers, carjackers, the kind of criminals he can just web to the wall and call it a day.

Drug rings are out of his league. He knows this, and yet he still finds himself in one of the group’s main storage facilities, listening to a conversation from behind a pile of giant wooden crates.

“—hurry up and get it to the distributors!” a deep voice yells. The man stalks over in front of Peter’s hiding spot and he crouches down further in the shadows; the dim warehouse lighting is a blessing.

“We’re moving everything as fast as we can,” someone else—Russian—soothes. “The Daredevil has hit our suppliers and one other storage unit. We need to be cautious.”

“Cautious my ass.” The first man leans against the crate. The automatic rifle slung over his shoulder thumps against the wood. “You’re scared, is what you are. You realize he’s not the actual fuckin’ Devil?” 

Russian Dude scoffs.

“You haven’t met him then.”

Peter shifts where he’s crouched, trying to peek his head around the boxes to get a better view. He’s almost positive he saw five guys on his way in. Right now he can only hear two.

“You sayin’ you have?”

There are two more men by the main door. Both have huge guns in their hands, plus pistols in their belts, if Peter’s seeing what he thinks he’s seeing. The fifth is nowhere in sight. He shouldn’t try anything until he knows where everyone is.

“I have.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s true.”

Peter throws himself back behind the crates when the man nearest him straightens. “Well, then. What was he like?” The other guy pauses. When he speaks, his words are low.

“He moved like a storm.”

Evil Guy #1’s booming laugh startles Peter so much he nearly stands. He forces himself to hunch down even lower, his heart hammering against his ribs. This was a bad, _bad_ idea.

“You Russians—“ the man wheezes, “—so _dramatic._ ‘Like a storm.’ Oh god, that is _good_.” The lights flicker overhead but neither man seems to notice. Peter risks another look just in time to see the scowl on the Russian’s face. The other guy is bent over, still laughing, holding his hands over his bearded face to stifle his guffaws. Light glints off of a knife in his belt and Peter represses a shudder. 

He looks around the warehouse, hoping to see a better place to lie low and listen before he makes his move. There’s an office about a dozen yards away, but no cover. So that’s out. If he could get up to the rafters without being seen—

Peter’s spider-sense _screams_. His vision goes white as he slams himself to the ground an instant before machine gun fire roars in his ears. He clamps his arms over his head and curls up tight. Someone howls in pain.

Bullets whiz everywhere, slamming into concrete, punching straight through the crates Peter’s lying behind. He presses himself to the ground. The air whooshes out of his lungs but he doesn’t need it anyway, he can’t even think of drawing breath. The gunshots are so loud, his head is aching, he can’t breathe. He’s going to die, he’s going to die, _he’s going to die—_

Everything stops. 

There’s silence, except for a soft whimpering that Peter realizes is coming from him. He bites his tongue. His shaking limbs are still held tight to his body, he doesn’t dare move, it isn’t safe, he’s not safe, he can’t move. His lungs burn but he won’t inhale, can’t risk making a sound. Peter lies there for an eternity.

Eventually he can’t take it anymore and he breathes, only to gag on the air, tainted with a slick, coppery stench that makes Peter shake harder. He presses his face into the floor for a moment. He doesn’t want to move.

But his spider-sense is quiet. Stiller than it has any right to be. He needs to go, he needs to leave, he has to get out of there.

His movements are far from graceful as he staggers to his feet. He stays crouched, but not as low as he should be; his balance is off. The lights overhead flicker again and he presses himself against the splintered crates, but nothing moves. Somehow that’s worse.

The smell is overwhelming; his stomach churns as he takes shallow breaths that barely fill his lungs. The thick air that coats the back of his throat, trying to suffocate him, tastes like metal. The scent is so horribly familiar but he can’t allow himself the luxury of remembering right now, he has to go, he has to move. His ears ring with the echoes of gunfire and he can’t hear himself think.

Peter steps out from behind the crates and immediately wishes he hadn’t.

There’s blood. Everywhere. 

Bits of flesh and bone are splattered across the floor, across crates and walls and _people_. Puddles of red seep from underneath cooling bodies. The Russian man Peter had heard is slumped against a support pillar. There’s a bullet hole in his head.

Someone coughs to Peter’s right and he flinches. When he looks over he sees the bearded man—Evil Guy #1—sprawled across the floor. His stomach is in tatters, ripped apart by bullets, but he’s still alive. He coughs again. Blood dribbles down his chin.

Bile rises in Peter’s throat and his knees almost give way. His heart is beating so hard hecan feel it in his temples. He can’t look away.

One part of him is _shrieking_ for him to run but he shuffles forward anyway. He drops to the ground next to the drug supplier.

“I-I-I don’t know what to do,” he stammers. His shaky hands hover over the wound; it sounds like he’s about to cry. The man takes a shuddering breath and chokes. He gags on his own blood and Peter presses his face into the crook of his elbow to quiet his hitched, panicked breathing.

“Oh god, oh god, I’m sorry, I can’t—I _can’t_ —“ He’s out of his league, he’s _so_ out of his league, this man is _dying_ and Peter _can’t do anything._

There’s a click over his shoulder. Peter’s head whips around and he can’t see anyone, but he knows the sound of a gun reloading.

The bullets come before he can get to cover. He drops, hitting the concrete hard. The skin of his knees splits open and blood stains his cheap red suit and his fingers scrabble against the floor as he struggles to pull himself to safety, but there _is_ no safety. Everything is noise— _bangingcrashingLOUD—_ and he’s shaking so hard he can’t move. His eyes are wrenched shut against tears threatening to spill.

He hears a gasp over the din and opens his eyes to look at the man on the ground; he’s no longer breathing.

He’s ripped from his horror by a splitting pain. A scream comes unbidden as a bullet tears through his leg. Blood coats his gloves as he presses frantic fingers against the hole in his calf muscle. He can’t sit up, can’t do anything as gunfire destroys everything around him.

The bullets stop suddenly, cut off with a grunt from what must have been the gunman. Peter takes the chance and scrambles on hands and knees back to his hiding spot. His leg aches, but he covers his whimper with his hand.

There are further sounds of a scuffle near the warehouse entrance. Peter closes his eyes and tries to gain control of his breathing without success. He needs to move. He’s a sitting duck, an _injured_ sitting duck. If he doesn’t move, he’ll be found, and if he’s found, he’ll die.

He can’t die yet.

Peter pushes himself up, balancing on his good leg. He tries to take a step forward and his leg buckles. He cries out and grabs the crates for support as pain shoots through his entire lower half, sharp and overwhelming. Peter stifles a sob with his fist.

Footsteps start making their way toward him. He tries again to stand with the same result and he crashes against the floor. The footsteps move quicker.

Peter flips himself onto his back just as the person rounds the corner. Chest heaving, he throws a hand up to shield himself.

“St-stay back!” he chokes. The figure is ill-defined through Peter’s goggles and panic. It takes a step forward.

“Get away from me!” Peter throws himself toward the wall behind him. He hurries toward the ceiling, blood dripping down his leg.

“What the… Hey, hold on!” the figure calls. Peter tries to jump into the rafters but can’t push hard enough on his right side. He falls and hits the concrete. He barely registers the hand on his shoulder before he lashes out. The figure dodges his punch easily.

“Stop _fighting,_ ” the figure grits.

_“Don’t touch me!”_ Peter screams. The pain in his leg, the ringing in his ears, the stench of blood filling his nostrils is _too much_ and he can’t _think,_ can’t _breath_ , can’t _move._

“Okay, okay, okay, just calm down.” The figure takes several steps back. “I won’t hurt you.”

Tears become trapped under Peter’s goggles but he can’t even think of taking them off and dealing with the extra stimuli. He sniffs and fights the shuddering sob building in his chest. The figure deflates.

“I want to help, alright? I can help you,” it continues. “You’re hurt. I know a nurse, a good one. One you can trust.”

Peter’s eyes focus long enough that he realizes the figure has tiny red horns.

Horns.

It’s Daredevil. Holy shit, it’s Daredevil.

He nearly says it out loud but his mouth and lips won’t coordinate enough for actual words. Instead, he gapes. Daredevil must realize he’s recognized him because he inches forward.

“I won’t hurt you, alright? You’re safe, it’s okay. I need you to breathe.”

Peter notices the burning in his lungs and draws a shaky breath. It’s immediately pushed out again and he tries to inhale, to fill the cavity in his chest, but he can’t hold onto the air, he can’t breathe, he can’t—

“Easy, easy, slow,” Daredevil murmurs. He crouches down, reaches for Peter’s hand and Peter jerks back. “It’s okay, it’s okay, I won’t hurt you, I want to help.” He stretches his arm out again and Peter pushes down the anxiety clawing at his throat to allow the man to take his hand and press it against his Kevlar-clad chest. “Follow my breathing.”

Daredevil inhales through his nose, deep and slow. Peter’s attempt stutters, but he manages it. They exhale together. They do it twice more before Daredevil sits back.

“Keep doing that, alright? I’m going to try and bandage your leg.”

Peter is shaking too badly to focus on anything else. He covers his head with his arms and curls into a ball, one leg outstretched as Daredevil wraps his wound with cloth. Engines rumble and horns honk just outside, the sounds rattling around in his overstimulated brain; for once he doesn’t want to be in the city that never sleeps. 

The cloth over his face is stifling. It rubs against his skin and traps his hot, panting breaths, but he can’t take it off, not without revealing his identity, so he doesn’t. He focuses on how his weight presses against the floor, how Daredevil’s firm but gentle fingers bind his leg. He focuses on the pressure on his ribs as he fills his lungs as full as possible. He can’t close his eyes, not with another person there, but his goggles dim the lights and his senses enough that it’s less overwhelming.

“That’s the best I can do for right now.”

Peter looks up—he winces at the sudden light—and Daredevil stands.

“We need to get out of here before the police arrive. I’m going to have to carry you.” Daredevil moves to hook an arm under his knees, but Peter scrambles backward. He shakes his head frantically.

“You can’t _walk,_ ” Daredevil insists. Frustration creeps into his tone. “The cops will be here any second and I’m assuming you don’t want to go to the hospital.” He puts a hand on Peter’s ankle; the touch is like ants burrowing under his skin. He flinches away again with a choked protest and DD groans.

“We don’t have time for this,” he says. He straightens and tilts his head. “The police are four blocks out. We need to move.” He inches forward, hands raised with palms out. “I’m going to put your arm around my shoulders. We have to be quick.”

Panic rises like bile in Peter’s throat but he squashes it. Daredevil takes Peter’s wrist and hauls him up, slinging Peter’s bony arm over his shoulders. Peter’s skin crawls at the contact but he focuses on the feeling of leather—Kevlar, whatever the hell it is—and pretends it’s not attached to a person. It doesn’t help much, but it’s the best he can do.

“Alright, let’s go,” Daredevil grunts. Peter leans heavily on his left leg, away from the tense vigilante helping support him, so their sides touch as little as possible. They stumble forward and Peter’s breath hitches on every other step, half with pain and half with the brief tide of nausea that sweeps him when their hips bump together.

“That’s it, just keep moving.” They round the corner of the crates and Peter falters at the sight of the bodies on the ground.

“Don’t look,” Daredevil orders. “One foot in front of the other. Go.”

He pulls Peter forward with a firm hand. Peter forces himself to keep his eyes straight ahead on the doorway in front of them. His skin tingles and his leg aches and each breath tightens the band around his lungs.

Suddenly they’re outside. The air is blissfully cold. A police siren grows closer behind them and Daredevil tenses and shuffles faster. Peter hobbles along beside him, pain arching through his leg.

He hisses through his teeth as they make their way along—where are they? 11th Avenue? They must be, he can see the pier just on their left. How the hell is he going to get home like this?

Blood continues to trickle down his calf. It gathers at his ankle, soaking through his sock. Wonderful. On top of everything else, he has to deal with a wet sock.

They make it two blocks before Daredevil is easing him to the ground. Peter drops without protest, his legs too unsteady and his brain too foggy to do anything else. He blinks up a the other vigilante as the man pulls out a cellphone from a pocket in his suit.

Huh. Maybe Peter should get pockets.

“Just take it easy, alright? I going to call that nurse I told you about. She’ll help,” Daredevil says to him. DD punches in a single digit and the phone starts ringing. The receiver picks up a moment later.

“Claire? Yeah, yeah, I’m alright, I— Do you have access to a car? Alright, that works too. I need you to meet me at—“ Daredevil pauses. “Shit. One minute.” He turns to Peter.

“Can you tell where we are?”

Peter glances to the side, where the street marker is just visible, lit by a flickering street lamp. Why didn’t DD look for it? 

He pushes the words through uncooperative lips. “49th s’reet. 49th ’n' 11th.”

“49th and 11th,” Daredevil repeats into the phone. “We’re next to a small parking lot.” Peter hears the confused _“We?”_ through the speaker.

“Someone else was injured,” Daredevil explains, sighing. “Gunshot wound to the leg. I couldn’t take him to a hospital it’s— it’s complicated. Please, Claire.” There’s a prolonged silence, and then a low answer.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

He hangs up. “She’ll be here in a few minutes. How are you doing?” Peter raises a shaky thumbs-up in response; his arm thumps against the concrete when he drops it. His heart is still beating way too fast, and he knows his breathing is too shallow, but it’s better than not breathing so he’ll take it. The pain in his leg has settled into a tingling numbness, which is probably bad, but he won’t complain about less pain, even if the sensation is pushing him further into sensory overload.

Daredevil paces back and forth, his shoulders growing more tense. His head shoots up as a van rolls down the street.

The vehicle stops and a woman jumps out of the driver’s side. She pulls a bag out with her and hurries over to Peter. She crouches down, looks at his leg, then his face, and freezes.

“You did _not_ mention the ‘someone else’ was _Spider-Man,_ ” she hisses over her shoulder.

“I don’t know who that is.”

“From the YouTube videos?” she insists. “The one where a guy catches a car about to ram into a bus?”

“I don’t watch much YouTube,” Daredevil says, exasperated, like he’s saying something obvious.

“No, you wouldn’t,” the woman—Claire—mutters. She undoes the wrapping around Peter’s leg and examines the wound. Her forehead creases. “The bullet went straight through, which is good, but I think it hit one of the larger veins. It’ll take time to patch the wound and the cops could search this area any minute.” She looks over at Daredevil. “We need to move him.”

He nods and strides forward.

Peter’s chest seizes and his hands scrabble against the cement, pushing his back flush against the building behind him. His eyes flick between Claire, Daredevil, and the van. Aunt May’s stranger danger talks play like sirens in his head.

“Hey, hey, look at me, look at me.” Claire’s voice cuts through the adrenaline. She looks him in the eyes. Her gaze is sincere. “We’re not going to hurt you. We want to help.”

Peter struggles to gain control of his breathing again as he stares at her. Daredevil keeps his distance in his periphery. They all freeze, a stressed tableau in the blistering cold. Eventually, Peter nods.

Some of the tension leaves Claire’s face and she smiles. “Okay. Okay, good. Let’s get going.”

She moves to his side and wraps an arm around his waist to help him stand. If she notices how he stiffens at the touch, she doesn’t say anything. Daredevil opens the doors to the van as they limp into the street and he grabs Peter under the arms to pull him inside. He settles him down next to a bag of oranges. Peter would ask about the boxes of produce lining the vehicle, but his voice has long since left him.

“Put pressure on the wound,” Claire orders, guiding Daredevil’s hands over Peter’s calf. He presses down and Peter flinches.

Claire shuts the doors and hurries around to the driver’s side. She starts the engine and takes off.

“You got any suggestions for where to go?” she calls back.

“Go to my apartment,” Daredevil says after a moment. He doesn’t look up from Peter’s leg.

“Are you sure?”

“It’s closer than the women’s clinic and I have medical supplies there. It’s the best option.”

“We could go to my place. You wouldn’t compromise your identity.”

“I’m not dragging any more of this mess into your life than I have to, Claire,” Daredevil insists. “There are more important things than my identity.”

“You heard it hear first, folks,” she mutters as they drive past a group of parked squad cars. Peter can’t see out the window, but her face is illuminated by the flashing lights.

He closes his eyes against a sudden wave of nausea. His head thumps against the van wall.

“How’s he doing back there?” Claire asks.

“The bleeding has slowed, but his heart is still racing and his skin is clammy.”

“Sounds like shock.” Claire doesn’t sound happy. The van jolts forward as she pumps the gas. “See if there’s anything there that will help keep him warm.”

Daredevil doesn’t even look around before he answers: “There’s nothing here.”

She huffs. “Okay, hold on.” They pull up at a red light and Claire quickly sheds her coat. She hands it back. “Put that on him.”

Daredevil elects to drape the jacket over him like a blanket rather than attempt to get his arms through the sleeves. Peter is thankful; his skin crawls at just the thought of being manhandled into the thing. His fingers clutch at the ends of the coat. Daredevil goes back to applying pressure to the hole in Peter’s leg, which he would be more thankful for if it didn’t _hurt._

Peter grinds his teeth together and focuses instead on the lights that dance around the van’s interior as they drive through the city. He has no idea where they are. He never should have come to Hell’s Kitchen. It was a stupid, _stupid_ decision, that he made because he’s an _idiot_ and now he has a bullet wound in his leg. A bullet would! Of all things! He’s gotten stabbed once, sure, but never _shot._ Does Iron Man ever have to deal with this?

“How are you feeling?” Daredevil’s words shake Peter out of his thoughts. He blinks once, twice, tries to focus on the vigilante’s face. Or the half of the face that’s visible. It’s mostly just a chin, but there’s a mouth too that’s turned into a frown and a cut along the jawline that looks recent—

“Spider-Man?”

Oh. Right.

Peter bobs his head in what could be an affirmation that yes, he is okay, if one were to ignore how much effort it takes him to lift his head back up. The tight lines of DD’s shoulders fill his view.

“You’re going to be fine, I promise.” Daredevil’s voice is soft, somehow comforting, and Peter might _feel_ comforted if his skin wasn’t stretched so tight over his bones, if a hazy cloud of blood loss and panic hadn’t descended over his thoughts. A joke about the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen being a mother hen sits under his tongue, but he’s too muddled to voice it.

“We’re almost there,” Claire says. Daredevil tilts his head in her direction. “Where should I stop the van?”

“There’s an alley across the street,” he replies and the van eases around a corner. It stops.

“How are we doing this?” Claire asks. “We can’t just go up the stairs, your neighbors are going to notice two vigilantes stumbling around their building.”

“Rooftop access,” he grits as he opens the back doors. He gets out first then turns around to help Peter, but Peter’s shuffling outside on his own. He stumbles when his legs hit the ground and Daredevil grabs him before he falls. Peter’s stomach rolls.

Daredevil tugs Peter’s arm across his shoulders and they limp across the road. Claire follows just behind, her hands out, ready to catch Peter should he falter again.

DD guides him around the back of an apartment building to an attached fire escape.

“He’s not going to make it up the stairs on that leg,” Claire tells them. She maneuvers around them and pulls down the ladder. “We’ll have to carry him.”

Peter shakes his head as vigorously as his exhausted body can manage. Claire looks unimpressed.

“You need to get up there, and you can’t do it alone.”

Peter unwinds his arm from around Daredevil and hops a few inches away on one leg, nearly falling, but managing to right himself. He extends an arm and shoots a web high on the side of the building. He musters what’s left of his strength and pulls himself up. Peter tumbles over the lip of the roof just as Claire’s shocked exclamation reaches his ears.

He takes a moment to rest—sprawled out on the gravel-lined roof—as Daredevil and Claire make their way up the fire escape. Claire reaches him first and puts an arm around his shoulders to get him to sit up.

“Just when I think I’m getting used to the weird that comes out of this city—“ she says, “—another one of you vigilantes has to go and do something like that.” She helps him to his feet as Daredevil unlocks the door to what Peter assumes is the apartment.

Daredevil takes over supporting him when they get to the stairs; pain flares in Peter’s leg at every step. They hobble over to a worn leather couch and DD eases him onto it. Claire flicks on the light and Peter wrenches his eyes shut for a moment before forcing them back open.

Daredevil steps back to give Claire room. Peter knows he should take the opportunity to look at his surroundings, but he can’t think straight. He knows there’s lots of open space, and unnatural light pours through a large window to the side of where he’s lying down.

Claire kneels beside the couch.

“I have to clean the wound,” she says. “This’ll sting.” She swipes a damp cotton pad overthe hole in his leg and pain flares along his calf.

“Sorry,” Claire mutters, but her focus isn’t really on him. Peter stares at the ceiling as she finishes treating the wound. In his periphery, Daredevil paces back and forth.

A police car speeds down the block. The siren pierces Peter’s ears, his head threatens to split in two, and he clamps his hands over his ears, pushing his face into the couch.

“What’s wrong, what’s going on?” Claire asks. She puts a hand on his shoulder. Peter flinches away as nausea sweeps his body. His breathing is ragged. The rough fabric of his suit scrapes against his skin with every movement and he can’t focus on anything but how it drags across his arms and neck and shoulders, can’t respond to Claire’s increasingly urgent questions.

“Give him some room,” Daredevil says, and as Claire steps back, Peter can breath again. He presses his hands hard against the sides of his face to try and calm himself down. His back is to the two adults, but he hears Daredevil whisper, “He’s overstimulated. I think he has enhanced senses.”

A moment later, the lights turn off. No one says anything. Someone wanders into another room and comes out a few minutes later. They move quietly to the couch.

“I have clothes here that might feel better than your suit,” Daredevil murmurs. “You can change in the bathroom if you want.” He leaves the clothes on the arm of the couch and walks away.

Peter doesn’t know how long he lies there before sitting up. He looks over his shoulder to the apartment’s tiny kitchen, where Claire sits at a table with a dark-haired man in a t-shirt and sweats. They both look at him, and the man smiles, though it’s strained. It takes Peter’s fuzzy brain a moment to make the connection.

He picks up the offered clothes and limps to the bathroom a corner of the apartment. For a minute he just sits against the edge of the tub; he doesn’t want to pull the suit off. He holds his breath as he tugs it over his head, because somehow that makes the sensation easier to stand, and he drops it on the floor. Daredevil’s hoodie and joggers are too big on him, but they’re softer than anything Peter owns. He bunches the fabric in his hands and breaths a little easier. Peter turns, almost ready to go back out, and catches a glimpse of his face in the mirror. 

His face. They’ll be able to see his face.

Peter picks up his mask to put it on, but even holding it in his hands has his shoulders tensing. He can’t make himself wear it. He can’t. But if Daredevil is willing to go without a mask, maybe he can too.

He puts on the goggles, even if they do nothing to protect his identity. The already dim lights in the bathroom become even softer. Peter takes a deep breath, bundles his spider suit in his arms, and walks out of the bathroom.

Claire’s eyes go wide when she sees him. She opens her mouth like she's going to say something, then bites her lip and looks at Daredevil. He doesn’t look back. He’s not even looking at Peter, but at some point to his left.

Peter shuffles over to the table and sits down. He keeps his suit in his lap.

“How are you feeling?” Daredevil asks. Peter licks his lips.

“Better,” he croaks. He looks at Claire and DD in turn. “Thank you.”

“Patching up superheroes has kind of become my job.” Claire gets up from the table and walks over to the sink. She pours a glass of water and places it on the table in front of Peter.

“Drink that,” she says. “You need fluids after losing that much blood. You should probably also be taking something to increase blood cell production.”

“I’m okay,” Peter insists. He takes a sip. “I heal fast.”

“Does that justify throwing yourself into dangerous situation?” Daredevil leans back and crosses his arms.

“What?”

“You could have been killed tonight, Spider-Man,” Daredevil says. “You’re what, fifteen, sixteen? You’re too young for this.”

Peter furrows his eyebrows. “I’m sorry, I hadn’t realized someone made rules for _vigilantes.”_

“Well, now you know.” Daredevil uncrosses his arms and lays them on the table. He turns his head in Peter’s direction, but Peter notices with a start that he’s not seeing anything. “You need to hang up the suit.”

“Absolutely not!”

“I’m not asking.”

“And I’m not taking orders from a guy I hardly know.”

“Claire,” Daredevil sighs, gesturing for her to back him up. She looks at the both of them and stays quiet. Daredevil frowns. “Claire?”

“I don’t think you’re in a position to tell people what’s too dangerous, Matt,” she says after a moment.

“He’s a kid!” Daredevil—Matt—almost yells.

“I am not!”

“You’re still in school!”

“That doesn’t matter!”

“Oh, I’d say it does!”

“Yeah, well you don’t get a say!”

“Would you just—!”

“Both of you _shut up,_ ” Claire snaps. She turns to Peter. “Yes, you are a kid. And you shouldn’t be risking your life for any reason.” Matt smirks. Claire turns on him, expression fierce. “But just because _you’re_ an adult doesn’t make it any better. _All_ of you vigilantes are reckless idiots with no common sense. But you also all have a stubborn belief in doing the right thing.” 

She turns to Peter. “I know nothing either of us say will make you stop being Spider-Man, but you need to listen to me when I say there are better ways to do it. If Matt hadn’t been there tonight, you would have died. End of story. You’re alive because you’re lucky. One day your luck will run out, and when it does, you’ll need help. Don’t try to do this alone.”

Peter sinks in his chair. Even Matt looks mollified. They sit in silence for a moment before Claire walks into the kitchen again. She comes back with a scrap of paper and a pencil. She writes something down before sliding it across the table.

“My number,” she explains. She jerks her head at Matt. “And his. He’s an asshole, but if you need him, he’ll be there.” Matt sighs, but he nods.

“I will,” he promises.

Peter takes the paper. It feels heavier than it is. “Thank you,” he says again.

“Do you have somewhere to go?” Matt asks.

“Yes!” Peter jumps to his feet and almost falls when his leg gives out. Matt catches him by the arm. Peter finds his balance and looks around frantically. “Oh my god, I’ve been out all night, it’ll be morning before I get home.” He grabs his mask and pulls it over his face. He barely notices the texture.

“Crap, I’m gonna be late to class!” Peter hurries toward the window, his suit in his arms. Matt and Claire both scramble after him. “I’ll wash these and get them back to you!” he throws over his shoulder.

“Spider-Man, wait!” Matt calls. Peter hesitates, the window open and one foot already outside. Matt looks at the wall just above him and it hits Peter again that Daredevil can’t see. “Just— be safe out there, kid.” Peter smiles and eases the rest of his body outside. 

“It’s Peter,” he says, before taking off.


End file.
